What It Is
by lilsherlockian1975
Summary: An introspective little post TFP ficlet. Sherlock ponders John's speech about Adler and about his own marriage from The Dying Detective as he waits for an important visit. For the-sapphiresky.


_This is a little something for the-_ sapphiresky _. Huge thanks to Miz for being an amazingly quick and oh so helpful beta. Alas, the mistakes all belong to me._

 _Sherlock's memories of John's words are from The Lying Detective (and one other line) I do not own them._ They _are in italics and stand alone in the fic._

I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~

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Checking his watch, Sherlock realised he had some time to kill. _Should probably do a bit of clean up,_ he thought with a grimace.

It was more of a distraction than anything else but it did the trick. Moving about his flat, he straightened things as he went and tried to focus on menial tasks rather than his upcoming meeting. Picking up Rosie's discarded bits of biscuit from the coffee table, he tossed them in the bin then dusted off his hands. She had demolished his stack of medical journals… again. He restacked them, then grabbed the cushions off the floor, tossing them back onto the settee.

Once everything was back in its place, he checked his watch. _That killed nearly ten minutes._ He sighed as he sat in his chair and pondered.

 _She's out there, she likes you…_

He laughed out loud at the absurdity of John's statement. Though he had meant well, his friend was way off the mark. Now, months later, the doctor _still_ assumed that the reason Sherlock didn't return Adler's messages was because of his 'fear of intimacy' or some such drivel. Even after the events at Sherrinford, John didn't seem to have a clue. He knew this for a fact because the man had just left, daughter in tow, and had once again brought up the subject, asking if Sherlock had communicated with the Dominatrix.

He hadn't, of course. He _couldn't_ send Irene a text or phone her, not while his emotions were still whirling around a certain pathologist. His mind couldn't stop thinking about big brown eyes and too thin lips. It was filled with dimples and ponytails and ugly jumpers. The memories of her face: smiling, laughing, concentrating, angry, disappointed and worst of all near tears haunted him daily. Her whispered ' _I love you'_ still echoed in his ears.

 _... do you have the first idea how lucky you are?_

"I do, actually, John," Sherlock said to his empty flat. Ironic, since he didn't even believe in luck.

She should have told him to bugger off after his first insult, but Molly Hooper was made of stronger stuff. To the outside observer, she may have seemed spineless for sticking around - for staying through his mockery, though his manipulations, through his continuous bad behaviour - but he knew better. The woman was perhaps the strongest person he'd ever known.

He chuckled. "Okay, she and Mary will probably have to share that distinction."

 _Would complete you as a human being…_

Hmm, complete him? _Possibly_ , he supposed. John assumed that romantic love was the one element that Sherlock was missing, but what his friend didn't know was that he _did_ feel it. He felt Molly's love, even returned it, he just didn't express it outwardly.

Oddly enough, John hadn't pressed the issue of Molly and _those words_ , annoyingly more fixated on Irene's occasional text messages. He knew why, of course. John assumed that Sherlock had only said them to do what needed to be done in that moment. His friend couldn't possibly know what it had cost to speak them… right then… in that moment… under duress.

 _Phone her, do_ something _while there's still a chance, because that chance doesn't last forever._

He glanced down at his watch. Was time moving slower or was it just him?

 _It's gone before you know it._

John's words were understandable; he _was_ grieving, after all. But Molly was _always_ there. She wasn't going anywhere…

 _Before you know it!_

"Is she?"

She almost had, of course. _She almost married that idiot._ Would that have been so bad, though? Sherlock knew that nothing would stop her from loving him. If his behaviour hadn't accomplished the task then marriage certainly wouldn't. They had weathered rougher storms than her falling for another man.

John wasn't talking about losing his wife's heart, however, he was talking about losing her completely. A pain spiked through Sherlock's chest when he suddenly envisioned the casket once again.

The loss of Molly Hooper might just manage what London's most brilliant, most ruthless criminals could not. He laughed bitterly. _No, it would, wouldn't it? It would end me_. Especially if it happened before he had the chance to taste her sweet lips.

Sighing, he stood and paced to the window, resisting the urge to check his watch yet again. He had been at this crossroads for months. A question had plagued his mind: What to do about Molly Hooper? Followed by many, many more…

Could he make her happy? How does a person who's never had an actual relationship begin one? Did she deserve better? And how long do two people who've known each other for more than eight years have to wait before shagging like crazed bunnies on speed?

He checked his bloody watch… again.

 _She taught me to be the man she already thought I was._

And _this_ was the real problem. An entirely _Molly_ created problem. John may have been talking about Mary at the time but he couldn't have known how apropos his statement was to Sherlock's consternation.

Molly understood him without even knowing _why_ she did. She gave her love without any hope or, more importantly, need for reciprocation. She just… loved.

It was a beautiful thing to behold, once he realised what he was actually seeing, that is. In fairness, it did take a while. At first he thought it was nothing more than infatuation - perhaps it was… for a little while, at least - but it grew, it changed, evolved. Sherlock couldn't help but observe her. It was in his nature to closely watch those around him and once she had his attention, he watched Molly Hooper very carefully. He soon realised that she cared for more than his good looks or brilliant mind, but for a heart that he didn't even know he possessed.

In watching her love grow - watching her give it so freely for so long - she had taught him a valuable lesson: Molly Hooper had taught Sherlock Holmes _how_ to love.

She had always loved without getting any love directly back and he wasn't entirely sure how the next part worked.

How did one both give _and_ receive love at the same time?

 _Get yourself a piece of that._

Sherlock turned, throwing his hands in the air and growled, " _I'm trying, John!"_ as if his friend was standing in the room and could hear his frustrated declaration.

He was going to have to figure it out. Glancing down at his damnable watch, he realised that he had officially run out of time and quickly turned back to the window in hopes of catching her arrival.

Less than sixty seconds later he did. Molly Hooper walked up to the building, took a deep breath, and then disappeared from his sight.

His heart rate increased as he heard her light footfalls on the stairs, panic quickly setting in. As he faced the door of his flat, his own frantic voice started berating him...

 _You've hurt her._

 _You waited too long._

 _Should have talked to her just after._

 _Why didn't you go to her the first chance you had?_

And then suddenly John's...

 _It is what it is._

She was at the door, just about to knock.

 _But I don't deserve her!_ he thought. _I couldn't possibly be worthy of…_

 **Knock-Knock**

Clearing his throat and trying to shake off his nerves, he said, "Come in," as calmly as possible.

And there she was. Molly Hooper. She smiled, but didn't speak, and the most unimaginable peace settled on him, covering him like a warm blanket. "Hello, Molly," he greeted, stepping forward.

"Hi. I was… surprised to get your text."

"Really?"

She nodded, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. "We've hardly spoken… since."

Two more steps and he was right in front of her. "And for that I am truly sorry."

"It's all right, you've been…"

"No excuses, Molly. We're… I'd like to start over, in a way."

"'Kay," she replied with a smile, her dimple deepening, her cheeks turning slightly pink.

Reaching out, he took Molly's hand. "There's only one way to start this," he said. Drawing her closer, he removed the bag from her shoulder, letting it drop to the floor, then cupped her cheek. "I love you, Molly Hooper. In every sense of the word." Her eyes widened in surprise. "And if you'll let me, I'll spend the rest of my life making up for taking so long in telling you."

Several seconds passed before Molly closed the distance, answering him with her too thin, but oh, so sweet lips pressed against his.

 _In saving my life, she conferred a value on it. It's a currency I do not know how to spend._

He knew exactly how to spend that currency now.

 _Thank you, Mary._

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 _Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think. ~Lil~_


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